Alexander held his coat collar tight against his neck.

“We need a vehicle that won’t attract attention,” I said.

“I have an old contact,” he said. “A driver who worked for my family before the board turned.”

We walked three blocks to a closed diner under the elevated train tracks.

The sound of the train rumbling overhead drowned out our footsteps.

A black sedan was waiting in the shadows.

The driver, an older man named Joseph, didn’t ask questions.

He just nodded and opened the door.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled of cherry air freshener.

“To the Metropolitan Gallery,” Alexander told him.

Joseph put the car in gear and pulled out into the wet street.

I opened my clutch and checked the cloning device.

It was a black plastic box no larger than a deck of cards, wired with a short cable.

“If we get caught, they will call the police immediately,” I said.

“They won’t catch us,” Alexander said.

His voice was flat, but I could see his knuckles were white as he gripped his knees.

He was looking out at the city he used to rule.